Samantha James (4 page)

Caro was right. She didn’t agree. “Well, if he is, I do not wonder why,” she muttered.

“Annie,” Caro chided, “it isn’t like you to be mean-spirited. As the countess’s nephew, of course he will be present. And Aunt Viv is so excited about hosting the fete. You know this is her first entertainment since coming out of mourning.”

And that was what held Anne silent. Caro was right. Before her father’s illness, her mother loved nothing more than to entertain. And Anne would never—ever—do anything to deprive her mother of her pleasures, or dampen her happiness in any way.

She could not cry off. Very well then. For her mother’s sake, she would welcome Simon Blackwell. For her mother’s sake, she would be gracious, and pretend her dislike of him did not exist. No one, save Caro—and the man himself!—would know otherwise.

Yet again, it seemed she must endure his presence. There was simply no help for it.

Anne had resigned herself to her fate. There was nothing she could do to avoid it. She must deal with it—or him—as best she was able. Should her path chance to cross Simon Blackwell’s, she would react with the decorum instilled in her by her mother. She would not embarrass her family with small-minded behavior.

No, Anne would never have deprived her mother of this night. Ever since her mother had offered to host the Dowager Countess of
Hopewell’s birthday celebration, her dear mama had been flitting to and fro like a butterfly. Though she was fatigued at day’s end, Vivian was gay and glowing. Not until then did Anne realize how much her mother had missed her social activities. There was a lightness in her that Anne had not seen in many a month. Both Caro and Alec had noticed as well.

And indeed the affair was a lively festivity. The ballroom had been scrubbed and dusted and aired and was now filled with the lingering scent of roses. Dinner was scrumptious. A quartet had begun to play, and the dance floor was already filled. Vivian, animated and radiant, was making the rounds of the guests. The Dowager Countess of Hopewell beamed.

At dinner, it was Simon Blackwell who rose and offered a birthday toast to his aunt. When he smiled—oh, but there was no denying it!—he was so strikingly handsome, Anne’s breath stopped in her throat. She discovered herself mulling the oddest question.

He infuriated her. He disturbed her. He distracted her. So why, when all was said and done, did she find him the most attractive man she’d ever met? Why couldn’t she stop thinking of him? Why couldn’t she put him from her mind? It should have been easy.

Heaven above, it wasn’t.

She’d thought of him nearly every moment
since they’d met. Not particularly pleasant thoughts, but she’d thought of him nonetheless.

It was highly disconcerting, and certainly something she would never divulge to Caro. Caro would surely cackle with delight at such a confession. And it was not, Anne assured herself as she managed to strategically place herself at the opposite end of the ballroom, an effort to avoid him. It was simply the desire to be wherever he was
not
.

Which was, she decided, rather silly. It was ridiculous to allow him to unsettle her so. And with that thought fixed securely in her mind, she laughed and chatted and danced.

But fate did not favor her tonight. As if Simon Blackwell’s presence wasn’t enough for her to contend with, Lillith Kimball was here as well. Lillith was off to the side of the ballroom, standing near the musicians, watching the dancing. Anne knew the precise moment Lillith saw her, too.

Ann nearly groaned. Instead she summoned a smile and inclined her head; Lillith adopted no such courtesy. Her expression was cold. Quite deliberately, Lillith turned her back.

So. Caro’s words the other day at Hyde Park flitted into Anne’s mind. For whatever reason, it appeared Lillith had neither forgotten—nor forgiven—her resentment over Charles Goodwin.

How silly. How stupid, for it had been two
years. But should she chance to encounter Lillith, Anne was determined to be pleasant.

Just as she swung away from the punch table, Anne saw Simon. Off to the side near the double-paned doors that led to the terrace, a tall figure clad in dark evening clothes that set off his height to full advantage. His waistcoat was a deep, rich brown, his frock coat a dark hunter green—it was the first time she’d seen him garbed in clothing other than black. He’d turned his gaze to stare through the glass, into the darkness that lay without. Anne studied his averted profile, her steps inadvertently carrying her closer.

Despite the distance that separated them, she sensed something odd in him, something like the first time he’d heard little John called Jack.

The thought that flooded throughout her mind was startlingly strong—that he was not aloof, but alone.

At precisely that instant, he raised his head. Their eyes met. And held, for an indiscernibly long stretch of time.

Strangely enough, Anne couldn’t look away. Even more strangely, she didn’t
want
to.

The moment was broken only when he tipped the edge of his glass toward her, a silent acknowledgment.

She could have avoided him. Ignored him. Turned away and pretended she had seen neither him nor the gesture, for why did she care?
Why did she bother? But Caro’s words suddenly spilled all through her.

I know you may not agree, but I think he’s lonely.

She was scarcely aware of her feet moving beneath her. Almost before she knew it, she was standing before him. What lay behind her movement, she could not say. She did not
know.
Her heart suddenly foundered, then recovered its rhythm, and now it was a wild knocking that thumped throughout her breast.

“Lady Anne. Fate contrives to bring us together yet again. Forgive me if I do not ask you to dance. I fear we would both be placed in an awkward position when you refuse.”

Anne caught her breath, stung without quite knowing why. Why? Why? She shouldn’t have cared a fig!

But she did. Oh, how she did!

She eyed the glass in his hand. “Are you un-well, sir?”

“No,” he said curtly. He raised the glass to his lips and drank.

“Pardon me for making the observation, but you seem rather out of sorts. Therefore, I ask again if something is wrong?”

His eyes flickered. “My dear Lady Anne,” he said coolly, “I pray you, stick to your own affairs and refrain from meddling in mine.”

Anne’s temper began to simmer. “It’s no wonder you’re a recluse if you’re always so dis
agreeable. Or is it only me whom you find so distasteful?”

“My lady, I could well say the same to you.”

“Yes, I can see where you might.” She took a deep breath. “But what if I said you have misjudged me, sir? What would you say to that?”

He gave her a long, slow look. “I would ask what is behind this sudden change of heart.”

Anne flushed. “It occurs to me that my opinion of you may have been hastily formed.” He made no comment, and Anne found herself rushing on. “It is my cousin who chided me, who made me reconsider. Caro—well, she thinks you’re lonely.”

He had gone very still. “And you, Lady Anne? What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. Truly. But it occurs to me that I may have been petty and small. And I should hate to think of myself that way.”

He eyed her, then said slowly, “You do not mince words, do you?”

“What is the point? My brothers consider me impulsive and spirited, though that is my own choice of words. I admit, I am quick to judge. Perhaps sometimes too quick, for my tongue has occasionally been known to land me in trouble.”

A brow climbed a fraction. “Why am I not surprised?” he murmured.

His voice was low.
Raspy
, some might have called it.
Husky
was the word that came to Anne’s mind.

He lapsed into silence, raising his glass to his lips once more.

Anne garnered her courage. “It is your aunt’s birthday,” she ventured further. “A joyous occasion. Therefore, I propose a truce for the night.” Taking a deep breath, she held out her hand.

He stared at it. There was a hollow silence. His gaze flitted to her face, then returned to her outstretched hand. He did not want to touch her. She knew it instinctively. The temptation to withdraw her hand was almost overwhelming. She didn’t. Instead she found herself holding her breath, a curious tension sizzling the air between them.

He said nothing for the longest time. Then he took her fingers, squeezing them briefly. “Forgive me,” he said very quietly. “Your opinion of me has not been unwarranted. And for that, you have my apologies.”

Just that quickly, between one heartbeat and the next, something changed. What it was, why it was, Anne wasn’t certain. She knew only that it
was
, and with the dawning realization came a barrage of questions about this man.

A man passing by jostled his elbow. The portly fellow wore a bright green waistcoat and yellow jacket that clashed horribly with his
thinning red hair. Simon gazed after him with a faint frown.

“Do not take affront,” Anne said quickly. “That is Lord Calvin. He has the air of a peacock, and dresses like one as well, does he not? He stuffs himself like a sausage into his clothing. It’s rumored the only way he manages is by donning a corset. I daresay it’s true, judging from the way he walks.”

Something she never expected graced Simon’s lips—a smile. A genuine one, at that. Then he glanced away. Raising his glass to his lips, he nearly drained the contents.

Anne watched him, the strong tendons in his throat working as he swallowed. “Are you always so fond of spirits?”

The question was both imprudent and impudent—and too late to recall. Anne bit her lip. Whatever on earth had possessed her to say it?

His gaze swung back to her. His eyes narrowed, pale and silver. His smile vanished. Something that might have been anger passed over his features. To her surprise, he set the glass on the tray of a passing servant.

“I could use some air,” he said abruptly. His tone was low, his manner rather strained.

“This way.” The terrace was but a few paces to the left. Anne led the way. She did not stop until the voices in the house were but a faint murmur.

“God, but I hate London,” he muttered.

“If you hate it so, then why do you not quit it altogether?”

“I intend to. Tomorrow, in fact. And then you need suffer my presence no more.”

She ignored this last. “Tomorrow?” she heard herself ask. “So soon?” Oh, heavens, what was she doing? Surely it wasn’t dismay in her voice!

“After Aunt Leticia’s birthday party tonight, there’s no reason for me to stay.”

Anne forced herself to look away. Up to the heavens. High above, a half moon peered through a hazy veil of clouds. Nearby, the clang of church bells tolled the hour.

“A pity there aren’t more stars,” she said wistfully. “But that’s London, I suppose. Too many buildings, too many people. Caro and I were musing about it just the other night—how there’s nothing like the night sky at Gleneden.”

“Gleneden,” he echoed. “Your home in Scotland, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s north of Sterling. Nestled on a point of the loch, with several others nearby.”

“It’s much the same at my home,” he said after a moment. “Though we’re given to fierce storms from the sea.” He paused, then said, “You and your cousin seem very close.”

“We are,” Anne said simply. “Caro is as much a sister as my own might have been.”

“So you have no sisters?”

“No. Well, actually, yes.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“I had a sister once,” she explained. “A younger sister who died, actually, when she was a year old, along with an older brother, during an outbreak of influenza. I’m afraid I don’t remember her. Another was stillborn before my mother gave birth to me. So whilst we were growing up, it was Alec, Aidan, and me. And oftentimes, Caro.”

Silence cropped up between then. Through the darkness, she could feel his eyes on her face. He had shifted slightly, so that his sleeve brushed the bare skin just above her glove. Over her shoulders she wore a white stole. She shivered, but not from the evening breeze that swirled through the air. No, not from cold. She felt heated. Hot. Almost feverishly hot.

“Sir,” she said, “you are looking at me.”

“My dear, we are in the midst of conversing. Where else am I to look?”

Anne fell silent. All at once her pulse was clamoring.

Nervously she wet her lips. It was a struggle to hold herself upright. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She wanted to clutch at his forearms, for the world was suddenly all awhirl. He stood near, so near she could see the intricate folds of his cravat, each fine gold thread stitched on his waistcoat. A faint sound caught in her throat. When she looked up, he was even closer. Closer than was proper.

His expression was solemn, his mouth unsmiling. But not hard. Beneath his brows, his eyes were clear and pale. Unsettling, in a way she could not explain.

His gaze had drifted to her lips. It wandered lower, lower still…her gown was of pale peach, cut daringly low yet the very height of fashion. His proximity was unnerving. Disturbing. Yet Anne didn’t retreat. And all at once, she didn’t want to.

His eyes had returned to settle on her mouth.

“You should run, Lady Anne. Run away now.”

He sounded so strange. And how odd that he should say that. For that was exactly how Anne felt. Out of breath, as if she’d run at breakneck speed from the lower floors clear to the rooftop.

An adventurer, everyone called her. What could be more adventurous than standing alone in the dark with a man she barely knew? Simon Blackwell was almost a stranger. She should have been alarmed, but she wasn’t.

Nervous, oh, yes. And excited, in some way she couldn’t fully define. A jumble of feelings swirled inside her. She felt as if her heart had come unseated in her breast.

Yet still she stood her ground.

Only an hour earlier, she’d have deemed it impossible. But now, everything inside her was churning. Clamoring. She knew instinctively what he was thinking—what he wanted. And
she knew, with every pore inside her, that she wasn’t going to stop him…

As soon as he was able, Simon had gone in search of a drink. Not the punch the ladies liked, but something stronger.

He hadn’t been pleased when he’d learned his aunt’s celebration was to take place at the McBride household. He loved his aunt, so he’d fulfilled her wish, made the obligatory appearance at her birthday celebration. But the sooner he left London, the better. He would not miss it. He did not like the questioning glances—the pitying glances—of those he’d known so long ago.

Anne’s approach had caught him off-guard, to say nothing of her offering of peace. Lonely, Anne had said. God, if she only knew! he thought derisively. But she was right, he did drink too much. Of late it seemed the only way he could cope.

A recluse, she called him. And perhaps he was. His life had palled. No, more than that. It was a shambles. He had no wish to be around people. No wish for the world to recall his devastating loss.